


i'm not the singer that you wanted

by KilltheDJ



Series: Or Until My Heart Explodes [1]
Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys - My Chemical Romance (Album)
Genre: Letters, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:35:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25180252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KilltheDJ/pseuds/KilltheDJ
Summary: Fun Ghoul has a lot left to learn about the Zones, but there's one thing he knows for certain - falling in love isn't high on the priority list, and he hasn't done it, or so he tells himself. So, he writes a letter to get all his feelings down, considering the object of his affection and hostility can't read it.
Relationships: Fun Ghoul/Party Poison (Danger Days)
Series: Or Until My Heart Explodes [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1827067
Comments: 16
Kudos: 57





	i'm not the singer that you wanted

**Author's Note:**

> haven't posted in a month xoxo have some funpoison! have some letters! i have SO much written out but uh haven't posted anything. ad;flkjads;fklajds

On the border of Zone Three and Four, hidden behind a valley of sand dunes and cacti, lies a diner in disrepair, duct-taped windows and graffiti covering up the original, stripped green paint, and four sleeping rebels. 

Among the rebels, one slept on his lonesome, tucked away in the out-of-use walk-in freezer with his teddy bear clutched to his heart like a lifeline, wishing for the ghosting smile of a poet on the airwaves.

Another slept accompanied with an animal; the mutated, six-feet-tall wolf kind, both sleeping soundly with a spare blanket and pillows galore surrounding the pair; the wolf slept on the side the rebel couldn’t see out of. 

And the other two rebels were in a different position. One was asleep, curled into the bed with their blood hair splayed across the hair dye stained pillow, snoring. 

The other, a raven-haired rebel with a scarred mouth, the one with a grin akin to that of the wolf’s, was sitting up with his knees to his chest, a yellowed writing pad sitting on the bed, inches away from the blanket-covered arc of Party Poison’s back. 

The stolen, purple marker he was previously using to write is on the floor, and he’s staring at the messy, scrawled letters across the page.

One might think it was elegant cursive, a rare skill to have, if Fun Ghoul didn’t know the truth; print writing, but messy, letters stringing onto other letters with no regard for spacing nor legibility. 

Sighing, Ghoul drags himself out of bed, shivering at the lack of warmth provided to him by the blanket, and picks up the writing pad. 

He’s careful to not touch Poison’s sleeping form, if only because Poison was a light-sleeper and it would upset them greatly. However, the _ghoul_ part of his name is there for a reason, and Ghoul doesn’t make a sound as he gently lifts part of the mattress, just enough to stick the writing pad and accompanying writing out of sight and out of mind. 

If Ghoul has his way, and usually, he does, Poison will never see the writing pad nor its contents. It’s foolish, thinking Poison will never discover it, but Poison wasn’t the best with reading and perhaps it would help Ghoul when the time came. 

And with that, the man aptly named after a _ghoul_ climbed back into the bed, pulling the dirty, stained flower-print comforter over himself, careful not to touch the gray blanket Poison so adores. 

It’s special to them, and Ghoul knows to respect that. Respect in a crew was worth far more than his writing pad.

Still, as Ghoul fell asleep, joining the other three rebels in a spell of rest, the writing pad sat alone, neglected. 

The contents littering the page are declarations, burning questions, and, often, desperation. 

_ 

_NIGHT ONE - 0?/??/27_

_Dear Poison,_

_I don’t know how to write a letter, and I’m not going to let you read this, ever. Kobra might find it, I guess, but he doesn’t care about my little diary, y’know? If he did I would call his ass_ **_out_ ** _on that Hello Kitty “journal” he has._

_Anyway, I figured I’d write this like I was talking to you, since I guess… It’s what I want to say to you. Everything, anything, all in a tangent, all thrown together in pieces of paper I can burn when your light dies out._

_Not that I think it’s going to, but I worry. You’re reckless. We all are, I know that, but you’re our spark; you’re the thing keeping us all together. Without you, it all falls apart… Jet’s a nervous wreck, I’ll blow myself up if I have to go a month without poison red hair in my hand, and Kobra… I don’t know. I love the Kid, really, but he’s… Well, he’s a wildcard. He kinda scares me. But I can’t tell you that, since he’s your brother and you two are weird close._

_I’m worried about everything that happens when I’m gone. Not, like, dead gone, but on a run gone. I don’t know what’s happening and I always feel like I’m gonna come back to a death disco and have to take some masks the Mailbox. I don’t want to be the last one of us left._

_I know that sounds selfish, and maybe it is, but I couldn’t deal with you all being ghosted. I couldn’t. I’m so used to Jet’s calming presence and Kobra’s explosive anger and your spark, all blending together to make this place home and without you guys I couldn’t make it, I’m just the bomb guy. I’m just part of the crew, the family, whatever we are._

_But it’s a little different with you, Poison. And I don’t know what kind of different, ‘cos it’s not like I’d care more if you died compared to the others, but… It’s different._

_I notice_ _you more._

_That sounds creepy as fuck, and maybe it is, but there’s something about you that’s just electric. And it’s not your passion, but it is and it isn’t all in one, and sometimes you frustrate me so much I want to cry._

_And it doesn’t help that you took that whole “kiss the homies goodnight” thing seriously because I don’t know if I can deal with you kissing me again without any meaning behind it. I get that it happens out here but… Like I said, you’re different._

_You make me question myself. Like… like I know exactly what I’m doing until you walk into a room and then suddenly all I can focus on is the way your smile lights up your whole face or the way you walk like you're everything that’s ever mattered. I will admit, that skirt we found at the scrap yard helps. You look nice._

_Who am I kidding? Everyone knows you look more than nice. You’re, like, holy shit. Holy fuck. Any variation of that stuff, that’s you. It’s weird, I know, but that’s how I think of you, and your blue lipstick looks good when it’s stuck on my face, I think._

_Take that as you will (won’t, since you’ll never see this)._

_It’s lonely, sometimes, knowing I’m having this crisis about you when there’s no one I can talk to and the person I share a bed with is the same person I’m writing this letter to. You’re right next to me right now, and if I leaned over, I could play with your hair or something. But I won’t, ‘cos I don’t think you’d appreciate it, and I don’t ever want you to… be uncomfortable, I guess._

_I made the mistake once when we first met. Remember that? I was at your throat for like, three months, and you were at mine, and I wanted to punch you in your stupid cute face and I think you wanted to run me over with the ‘Am._

_I thought you were so pretentious. All high and mighty and stuck on your stupid red throne. And I was just pissed off that you thought you were better than me when I was the Snow Storm and you were some hot-shot from the Lobby who thought (rightfully) that you could take the desert over like a hurricane._

_And you did._

_You did and that’s probable when I started having this stupid crisis, ‘cos I didn’t want you dead on the ground anymore and there was that concert, and then there was that stupid drunken game of Truth Or Dare we all played where Kobra made you light my fucking hair on fire and we tumbled into bed together._

_I think the best part was that our only motivation was sleep. Like, I’m used to.... I don’t know. Not tumbling into bed with someone for sleep or snuggling? But I did with you. And then I never left. And now it’s our room and you’ve got drawings up on the walls with those shitty stickers Jet made and it’s ours, fuck, it’s ours._

_It’s so weird to think that there’s something we share beyond a crew, that we_ **_are_ ** _a crew beyond living together. It’s nice, but weird, and there’s this feeling I get about you…_

_Fuck, I have to go to sleep now, I’m getting tired, but I wish you a good night and… And I’m glad I’ll never say any of this to you in person, and that you’ll never read this._

_Signing off,_

_Fun Ghoul (bastard fiend extraordinaire, please contact at 1-800-FUCK-YOU)_

_PS. Is that too many numbers for a phone number?_

_

By the time all four rebels are up and about their day, Ghoul’s itching for the night to fall once again over the dull desert, to give him time to write. 

It’s unfortunate he doesn’ have any sticky notes, and that he couldn’t write his thoughts on any if he did, because his literate crewmates were nosey at best. He has so many, though, and they’re swirling around his head, never coherent, stringing into one another. 

Party Poison is many things; a Killjoy, a sibling, a friend, a leader, a firecracker… Ghoul can’t name them all, and he’s not going to try. But each piece, each label is like a different piece of a puzzle, one Ghoul can’t solve, one that he _needs_ to solve.

He doesn’t know how he feels about Poison, but writing that letter had made it… better, somehow? It’s still conflicting, but he knows he can write about it again tonight. He knows Poison will never see the letters, and that’s what gets him through breakfast, alongside tight smiles. 

Luckily, most of the attention is on Kobra, as it always is, slinking away from the Diner and no doubt off to the Crash Track; notorious to most for drag-racing, and notorious to the Fabulous Killjoys as _Cherri Cola’s usual spot._

And Ghoul realizes, sitting in the Diner booth next to Poison, with their hair falling into their face and a laid back smile, dimples and freckles and last night’s make-up and all, that he knows what he’s conflicted about.

He’s in love with Poison. He’s _pastel,_ as they say, but to Ghoul it doesn’t seem right, not yet, and he knows for a fact somewhere in the bottom of his stomach that he can’t pretend he _isn’t_ in love with Poison.

But that’s a problem for another hour, and he’s eating breakfast with his two favorite people (and one wolf) in the world: Jet Star and Party Poison, and Pear, of course, and everything is right.

Everything is right, but he’s lying to himself, and he realizes why he has to slide away from Poison. He can’t do this. 


End file.
